Breathe, don’t think

From White Noise by Don DeLillo [p 252-254]

I took Heinrich and his snake-handling buddy, Orest Mercator, out to the commercial strip for dinner. It was four in the afternoon, the time of day when Orest’s training schedule called for his main meal. At his request we went to Vincent’s Casa Mario, a blockhouse structure with slit windows that seemed part of some coastal defense system.

I’d found myself thinking of Orest and his snakes and wanted a chance to talk to him further. We sat in a blood-red booth. Orest gripped the tasseled menu with his chunky hands. His shoulders seemed broader than ever, the serious head partly submerged between them. “How’s the training going?” I said. “I’m slowing it down a little. I don’t want to peak too soon. I know how to take care of my body.” “Heinrich told me you sleep sitting up, to prepare for the cage.” “I perfected that. I’m doing different stuff now.” “Like what?” “Loading up on carbohydrates.” “That’s why we came here,” Heinrich said. “I load up a little more each day.” “It’s because of the huge energy he’ll be burning up in the cage, being alert, tensing himself when a mamba approaches, whatever.” We ordered pasta and water. “Tell me, Orest. As you get closer and closer to the time, are you beginning to feel anxious?” “What anxious? I just want to get in the cage. Sooner the better. This is what Orest Mercator is all about.” “You’re not nervous? You don’t think about what might happen?” “He likes to be positive,” Heinrich said. “This is the thing today with athletes. You don’t dwell on the negative.” “Tell me this, then. What is the negative? What do you think of when you think of the negative?” “Here’s what I think. I’m nothing without the snakes. That’s the only negative. That’s the only negative. The negative is if it doesn’t come off, if the humane society doesn’t let me in the cage. How can I be the best as what I do if they don’t let me do it?” I liked to watch Orest eat. He inhaled food according to aerodynamic principles. Pressure differences, intake velocities. He went at it silently and purposefully, loading up, centering himself, appearing to grow more self-important with each clump of starch that slid over his tongue. “You know you can get bitten. We talked about it last time. Do you think about what happens after the fangs close on your wrist? Do you think about dying? This is what I want to know. Does death scare you? Does it haunt your thoughts? Let me put my cards on the table, Ores. Are you afraid to die? Do you experience fear? Does fear make you tremble or sweat? Do you feel a shadow fall across the room when you think of the cage, the snakes, the fangs?” “What did I read just the other day? There are more people dead today than in the rest of world history put together. What’s one extra? I’d just as soon die while trying to put Orest Mercator’s name in the record book.” I looked at my son. I said, “Is he trying to tell us there are more people dying in this twenty-four hour period than in the rest of human history up to now?” “He’s saying the dead are greater today than ever before, combined.” “What dead? Define the dead.” “He’s saying people now dead.” “What do you mean, now dead? Everybody who’s dead is now dead.” “He’s saying people in graves. The known dead. Those you can count.” I was listening intentently, trying to grasp what they meant. A second plate of food came for Orest. “But people sometimes stay in graves for hundreds of years. Is he saying there are more dead people in graves than anywhere else?” “It depends on what you mean by anywhere else?” “I don’t know what I mean. The drowned. The blow-to-bits.” “There are more dead now than ever before. That’s all he’s saying.” I looked at him a while longer. Then I turned to Orest. “You are intentionally facing death. You are setting out to do exactly what people spend their lives trying not to do. Die. I want to know why.” “My trainer says, ‘Breathe, don’t think.’ He says, ‘Be a snake and you’ll know the stillness of a snake.’”